


Honey, Part The Second

by kam



Series: Honey [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kam/pseuds/kam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is sort of dubcon, cause Sherlock is a bit foggy and has been given a mild sedative.<br/>So.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey, Part The Second

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



It took Sherlock a few moments to realize that John’s fingers were, once again, clean, and he was simply licking John’s skin. Not, mind you, that he had a problem with that, but in the back of his (increasingly hazy) mind, it occurred to him that John might. He opened his eyes a bit, and found John staring at him, pupils blown wide, mouth open a bit, a look of intense concentration on his face.

“Sherlock, you should. Um. Probably stop now. You’re not well.”

Sherlock frowned, gripping John’s wrist tighter. John clearly _did not_ have a problem with this, he was just being a self-sacrificing git _again_.

“Sherlock. Please. I can’t…”

“You _can_ ,”

Sherlock somehow managed to sound incredibly superior around John’s fingers, and John moaned, just a bit.

“Not for much longer. I can’t.”

Oh. _Oh_. Even better.

“Then don’t.”

 

This time, John moaned more than just a bit. He pulled his hand away, despite Sherlock’s protests, and began to unbutton his shirt. Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but John hadn’t taken off the nice clothes he’d meant to wear to Mycroft’s stupid party. He looked quite fit in them, actually, and Sherlock decided he wouldn’t mind if John wore nicer clothes more often. The jumpers were fine, they were soft and comfortable and just so very _John_ , but honestly, the things a tailored shirt can do for someone…

“Honey,”

Sherlock demanded suddenly, shaking off that train of thought almost physically. The sedative was a bit stronger than he’d originally thought, and if anything was going to happen, he needed to focus on the situation at hand. He reached over to the nightstand, clumsily grabbing at the jar, and John shrugged his shirt off and steadied it, dipping his finger in and smearing honey across Sherlock’s lips.

“Alright?”

Sherlock poked his tongue out, tasting, and then frowned.

“Wrong.”

“What?”

“It’s only honey. I want honey _and_ John.”

 

Sherlock experienced the here-to-fore unknown feeling of John moaning _right against his mouth_. And that was quite good. Sherlock quite liked that. He opened his lips, poking his tongue out again, and swiped at the honey now covering John’s lips. John moaned again (Sherlock had decided that was his favorite of all the noises John made,) and opened his mouth, running his tongue across Sherlock’s. _That_ was, actually, even better. Sherlock made his most displeased noise when John pulled back, but changed his mind when John traced his honey-covered fingers down Sherlock’s neck, following them with his mouth.

“John. John, that’s. That’s quite nice. That’s… Ah!”

John nipped sharply at Sherlock’s collar bone, reaching up to dip his fingers in the honey again before tracing patterns across his chest.

“This is alright,”

he breathed against Sherlock’s neck, and, honestly, that would be quite unfair if it _hadn’t_ been alright, which it most certainly was. But still.

“Perfect,”

Sherlock gasped, finding that his breath was coming a bit short, and John shivered and began to lick up the spirals of honey, pausing occasionally to pay particular attention to Sherlock’s collar bone or sternum or nipple.

 

It wasn’t until John began pulling at Sherlock’s pyjama pants that he realized John was still wearing both trousers and a vest, and that was really just not on. Sherlock tugged shakily at John’s vest, managing to pull it over his head and toss it aside, giving him access to John’s chest. He reached out a slightly-more-controlled hand to dip his fingers into the honey, and dragged them clumsily across John’s skin, smearing honey across all his most interesting upper bits.

“Sherlock, I…”

John gasped and moaned when Sherlock reached up, licking at his collarbone, tracing his tongue down to his right nipple, and at that John… Laughed.

“What,”

Sherlock growled, pulling back and glaring at John.

“Ticklish. Christ. Tickling. It’s not you.”

John took a deep breath, squashing the laughter down almost physically, and stroked at Sherlock’s hair.

“Well. It is you, but it’s not. You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s just. That tickles.”

“Hmm. Well. Unfortunately, there’s still honey there. Can’t have that. So, you’ll just have to… What do they say, ‘man up’? Yes. That.”

Sherlock attempted a devilish grin, but on his sleepy face it came across more tender than wicked, and John nodded, taking a deep breath and holding it, which had the added benefit of making his muscles stand out a bit, which Sherlock rather liked. Rather than dwell on that, however, he reached up, licking gently at John’s nipple again, grinning at the quiver John couldn’t quite stop.

 

Once John’s chest was quite clean, John took control back, gathering a good amount of honey in his hand and drizzling it slowly down Sherlock’s body, starting at his neck and swaying back and forth along his chest and stomach, pouring the last bit over his now-exposed cock. Sherlock shuddered at the slightly-warmed honey dripping down his skin, and John smiled tenderly at him and went to work. By the time he’d worked his way down to Sherlock’s navel, Sherlock was a quivering mess under him, moaning and mewling and gripping tight to John’s shoulders.

“John, please.”

At Sherlock’s request, John took a tentative lick at just the very tip, sending a convulsive shiver through both of them.

“John,”

Sherlock whimpered, too sleepy and aroused to be embarrassed, and John licked a bit more firmly, reaching a sticky hand down to steady Sherlock’s cock at the base. This was, somehow, the absolute most erotic thing John ‘Three Continents’ Watson had _ever_ experienced, and he was painfully hard in his fancy trousers. Christ, he would never be able to wear them again without remembering this – Sherlock would simply have to buy him a new pair, as there was _no way_ he would ever wear these out in public. And it was entirely Sherlock’s fault. So. Clearly his responsibility to replace them. All of this only minimally helped to distract him from the painful tightness, and he finally gave in and reached his free hand down to undo his flies.

“John, I can’t… _Please_ ,”

Sherlock’s voice had gone deep, deeper than normal, and John shivered and refocused, taking the head into his mouth and swirling his tongue, mimicking the things he liked. Once he was absolutely sure the head was clean, he moved down, licking at the shaft, teasing the underside, occasionally tracing his still-sticky fingers along the vein so he could trace it with his tongue again. Not, he realized, that he actually needed the excuse.

 

Once Sherlock’s cock was clean, John considered for a moment before reaching up to gather more honey, drizzling it slowly over Sherlock’s hips and thighs. Sherlock bucked and twisted when John began mouthing at his skin, and John was forced to hold him down, dragging his tongue roughly across Sherlock’s hip bone.

“John. John, it tickles. John, stop.”

John hummed, nipping at Sherlock’s iliac crest.

“Don’t think I will. If I can survive a bit of tickling, surely you can.”

Sherlock fought back as best as he could, but he was still so very drowsy, and his limbs didn’t quite want to do what he told them, and the best he could manage was to buck his hips up a bit against John’s hands every now and again. Of course, once John’s tongue trailed down between his thighs, dangerously close to his perineum, Sherlock froze. But almost as soon as it was there, it was gone, and John was leaning up over Sherlock’s prone body, dipping his fingers back into the honey.

“Where next,”

John’s voice was uncharacteristically husky, and Sherlock grinned (again, borderline tender where he meant for wicked,) and reached out to push John’s trousers and pants down his hips, relying on John catching on and helping with his free hand, the two working together until John could kick the expensive trousers away. Then, he grabbed John’s wrist and guided it over to hover his hand above John’s flushed cock, watching, mesmerized, as the honey dripped slowly from John’s fingers onto the angry red skin.

“There,”

Sherlock murmured, smiling lazily and leaning forward to lap at the sensitive skin just under the head.

 

John’s cock tasted, not surprisingly, like honey, and Sherlock quite liked that. It was also warm and heavy against his tongue, and honestly, this was better than smoking – tasted better, felt better, smelled better. Also, there was, as far as he knew, no risk of lung cancer associated with licking honey off of ~~someone’s~~ ~~your best friend’s~~ John’s cock. So. Better all around. And the sounds John made. Beautiful little exhalations of,

“Christ, Sherlock,”

and

“Fuck, that’s perfect, just there,”

and especially

“Yes, love, fuck.”

That last one was Sherlock’s favorite. Not, of course, because John called him love. Just. Because.

“Sherlock, that’s… That’s beautiful, love,”

John reached down and stroked Sherlock’s cheek with a sticky hand, and Sherlock moaned a bit and, determined, sucked John’s cock into his mouth, stretching his lips around the head and pressing forward. Unfortunately, in his drowsy single-mindedness, he entirely forgot the reason all this had begun, and as soon as John’s cock hit the back of his throat, his eyes flew wide and he threw himself backwards just before he was overcome with a fit of wracking coughs.

 

Sherlock was embarrassed. John was mortified. Both turned bright red, and John reached across the bed, offering Sherlock the glass of water without meeting his eyes. Sherlock gulped what was left down, and the coughs subsided. He handed the glass back, looking studiously at his lap, and John sighed.

“You should lie back down. I’ll bring you another tablet in a few hours, alright?”

Sherlock looked up, embarrassment disappearing under the weight of his horror.

“You’re leaving,”

he squeaked, clearing his throat and blushing deeper.

“Shouldn’t I?”

“I thought. Um. I thought we were…”

“But I…”

“Immaterial. I shall ‘owe you one’.”

John bit his lip, conflicted. Realistically, he ought to let Sherlock rest. If anything, the situation called for perhaps some light cuddling. Sex really ought to be struck from the list of possible outcomes. However, Sherlock was currently kneeling on the bed, sheets kicked down, traces of honey and saliva shining in the light from the bedside lamp, and he was looking up at John so _desperately_. His lips were swollen and red, and his cock was in much the same state. His eyes were dark and his pupils were blown wide. His hair was mussed. Really, it would be cruel to just _leave_ him.

“Right,”

John’s voice had gone rough, bordering on a growl, and he climbed onto the bed, pressing Sherlock back until he was lying flat, staring up at John with that same look of desperation, tempered now with hope.

 

For the first time, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s without the pretext of honey, and Sherlock decided that John tasted just as good, if not better, without. His tongue, however, still tasted vaguely of it, and that was good, too. Something drifted up through the haze, and Sherlock pulled back, suddenly, grinning.

“What?”

“Honey comes from _bees_.”

“Yes, it…”

John was cut off as Sherlock pulled his lips back down, and he decided that, for once, he didn’t really mind being interrupted. Sherlock still had traces of honey on his teeth, and John made sure to lick them all away. Sherlock seemed to like that, as he copied the movement, running his tongue along the line of John’s teeth, and John swore he was _counting_ them. When John pulled back to kiss along Sherlock’s jaw and nuzzle at his neck, Sherlock murmured,

“Wisdom teeth removed,”

and John confirmed,

“When I was twenty.”

“Vestigial third molar, theorized to have helped our ancestors in the breakdown of plant matter, for which our systems were never really designed. Some 35% of people today never develop them. Interestingly, agenesis varies by ethnic group, with some groups experiencing complete agenesis and some experiencing none what-so-ever. Roughly 85% of people have them extracted at some point, due to impaction or partial eruption.”

John had settled, resting his chin on Sherlock’s chest and watching him as he lectured, and when he finished, John leaned up to kiss him again.

“Only you could do that after a pain killer, a sedative, and a blowjob.”

“Half a blowjob, at best,”

Sherlock grumbled, and John laughed.

 

After one more kiss, John sat up on his knees, nudging Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Turn over.”

Sherlock sighed and heaved himself dramatically onto his stomach. John reached over him, allowing his cock to brush against Sherlock’s arse, and grabbed the honey.

“Tell me if this is ok,”

he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock shivered. John sat back, drizzling honey down Sherlock’s spine. He held the honey in one hand, bracing himself against the mattress with the other, and began to lick the honey away. Sherlock found that to be quite ok, and he informed John of that. John grinned against his skin, dragging his teeth against Sherlock’s ribs.

“Figured this bit would be.”

“Then why did you… Oh.”

John sat back up, drizzling honey across Sherlock’s arse, letting a bit drip down between his cheeks. Sherlock shivered, doing his best to relax (the sedative was quite helpful in that regard,) and spread his legs just a tiny bit, giving John permission to go ahead.

“You know, most girls would _kill_ to have an arse like yours. And you’re so bloody skinny.”

“John. You have just dripped honey all over my naked form and are, I assume, preparing to lick it away. I implore you, _stop_ talking about girls.”

 

Sherlock’s skin was smooth and tight. It felt really rather lovely under John’s tongue, and John couldn’t help but drag his teeth occasionally, nipping here and there because it made Sherlock gasp and arch a bit against the mattress, which only pressed his arse closer to John.

“Christ, but you’re perfect, aren’t you,”

John whispered against Sherlock’s skin, and Sherlock reached down, groping for John’s hand.

“Hardly,”

he murmured, and John kissed and nuzzled into the dip in his spine. It was probably for the best, he decided, if he didn’t talk much more, because he was relatively sure he’d already said something embarrassing when Sherlock’s (perfect) mouth was on his cock, and it would really be ok if he didn’t embarrass himself further. Instead, he squeezed Sherlock’s hand once before pulling away and resting a hand on either cheek.

“Still alright?”

“Yes,”

another strong wave of drowsiness washed over Sherlock, leaving him incapable of coming up with a snarky reply. That was probably for the best, as John smiled and began pressing kisses from the small of his back down to his cleft, spreading his cheeks and absolutely refusing to let on that he’d never done this before.

“John, that’s… That’s… _John_ ,”

John couldn’t help but grin at the fact that he had, for once, rendered Sherlock speechless. He paused for only a moment, gathering himself, before pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s hole – it drew a curse from Sherlock’s lips, so John did it again. And again. And again, until he could work up the nerve to poke his tongue out and run it very lightly over the warm skin. Sherlock was, not surprisingly, fastidiously clean, and there was a strange, almost pleasant odour to this particular area. At the touch of John’s tongue, Sherlock’s entire body clenched, and John was quite glad he was holding him open. As John boldly licked a stripe across his hole, a low, broken moan fell from Sherlock.

“ _John_ …”

 

Sherlock was the most responsive lover John had ever had. As John licked and sucked and kissed, Sherlock rapidly fell apart beneath him, shaking and writhing and moaning. His voice had reached a new low, John would swear it was an entire octave down from normal, and it vibrated through John’s bones. When he pulled away, Sherlock whimpered until John pressed his fingers against his lips. Sherlock sucked them in greedily, licking enthusiastically until John pulled them back, offering Sherlock the spoon from before, covered in fresh honey. It promptly fell from his mouth when John began to ease a finger into him, lying forgotten on the sheets as Sherlock simultaneously tried to scoot away from and arch up into John’s touch.

“John,”

he whined, and John pressed kisses across his back, murmuring soothing words as he slowly slipped his finger all the way in.

“You’re alright, love, you’re fine. You’re doing so well. Christ, you’re so _warm_ ,”

John’s breath ghosted over Sherlock’s skin, making him shiver. Slowly, John pulled his finger back out, then pushed it in again, beginning a careful rhythm.

“Oh, love, you’re so good. You’re perfect, you’re doing so well. I can feel you, you want more, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded helplessly, wiggling under John’s touch, biting down roughly on his thumb.

“None of that, love,”

John cooed, gently pulling Sherlock’s hand away from his mouth.

“Let me hear you.”

 

By the time John had gotten three fingers into Sherlock, they were both wrecked. Sherlock’s every exhalation was accompanied by a moan, and John’s breathing was broken and too fast by half, leaving him feeling lightheaded. Sherlock had started pleading after the second finger, and it was taking all of John’s control not to listen to him.

“John, _please_ , I’m ready, I’m more than ready, I want it, _now_ , _please_ John, _please_ ,”

but by now, he was simply whimpering John’s name over and over, interrupting himself now and again to toss in a broken ‘ _please_ ’.

“Almost, love, almost. Just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock wanted to roll over, wanted to force John to just _do it_ , wanted to, if nothing else, argue, but he was still sleepy, because despite what everyone thought, he had been clean for _years_ now and his tolerance had shrunk considerably, making a mild sedative hit him like a tonne of bricks. It was through sheer force of will that he hadn’t passed out yet. The best he could do was keep up his begging, but that didn’t seem to be having much of an effect on John.

“Alright, love. Alright. Just. Here,”

John drew his fingers out, drawing a particularly insistent whimper from Sherlock, and pressed at his hip.

“Roll over, love, please. I want to see you.”

Sherlock complied as quickly as he could, glad for John’s steady hand on his hip. As soon as he was on his back he drew his legs up, pressing his thighs to his chest.

“Christ,”

John whispered, shuffling forward on his knees.

“Alright? Should I…”

“Clean,”

Sherlock managed, and John shivered and nodded. His mouth had gone dry, so he offered Sherlock his palm. Sherlock licked impatiently at it, wetting it as much as he could, and John used the saliva and his (copious) pre-cum to slick himself up. Then, more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life (and he was a doctor and a soldier, mind,) he began to press into Sherlock.

 

Slowly but steadily, John sheathed himself in Sherlock, letting loose a stream of curses that were completely at odds with the tender way he held Sherlock’s hip with one hand, bracing the other against the mattress by Sherlock’s head.

“Ah, bloody hell, Sherlock, I _can’t_ , I… _Fuck_ ,”

Sherlock slipped his legs around John’s waist, locking his ankles against the small of his back and drawing him in a bit faster.

“No, fuck, don’t do that, go slow, love, let me…”

Sherlock whined in frustration, but John quieted him with kisses, staying flush against Sherlock as they both adjusted.

“There, love, that’s better, isn’t it,”

he murmured, stroking Sherlock’s cheek gently.

“It was fine before,”

Sherlock grumbled, and John smiled and kissed him again, drawing his hips back a bit and pressing forward gently. Sherlock sighed against his lips, bringing one arm up to wrap around John’s neck and keep him close. John shifted, bracing himself more securely, and began to move, slow and deliberate. He changed his angle a bit each time until he found Sherlock’s prostate, then held steady, brushing against it on each stroke. Sherlock somehow managed to come apart even more, moving seamlessly from ‘wrecked’ to ‘ruined’.

 

Sherlock clung to John, terrified that if he let go, he would fall asleep. Sherlock was fighting with everything he had, desperate to stay here, stay with John, because this was _perfect_ , this was better than honey, better than cocaine, better than a triple homicide, better even than a locked box suicide. This was quiet and gentle but strong and maybe a little dangerous and it was so purely _John_.

“Sherlock… Sherlock, love, look at me,”

John’s voice was deep and rough, and Sherlock snapped his eyes open, pulling back just enough to meet John’s eyes, and that was even better. John’s pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the blue, and there was _fire_ in them, the same fire that was there when he drew his gun, when he stood up to Mycroft, when he drew himself up and said, without speaking, that he was ready to take on the world, so go on, please, just _try_ it.

“John,”

Sherlock’s voice was broken and breathy, and John moaned, moving a bit faster, reaching down with his free hand to swipe the pre-cum from the head of Sherlock’s cock and spread it along the shaft, matching his hand to the rhythm of his hips.

“ _John_ ,”

more broken this time, and his fingernails dug into John’s neck as his eyes slipped closed again. John leaned down to nuzzle and bite at Sherlock’s neck, and was pleased to find that a sharp bite made Sherlock’s hips snap up.

“You’re close, love, I can feel it.”

Sherlock whimpered in response, nodding jerkily and arching up as John thrust harder.

“Come for me, love. Come for me.”

Christ, there was just the barest hint of John’s army voice there, under the soft, gentle voice (his lover voice, Sherlock decided, the word feeling strange even in his thoughts,) and Sherlock could hardly help himself as he thrust his hips hard into John’s hand once, twice, three times and then came with a strangled yell.

 

John followed close behind Sherlock, pressing his hips flush to Sherlock’s and panting his way through it, face buried in Sherlock’s neck. When he finally pulled back, Sherlock kissed him insistently, gasping for breath when he finally pulled away. He meant to say something, something like,

“That was fantastic, John,”

or

“Why haven’t we done that before,”

or maybe

“I think I love you,”

but instead, he collapsed against the pillows and fell asleep.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, have you... You have. Bloody hell, Sherlock.”

John sighed, pulling out of Sherlock and sighing heavily, rolling onto his back. He was going to take a minute to enjoy the afterglow, whether Sherlock was awake or not. Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed and went to get a warm washcloth to clean himself and Sherlock up. He ripped the spoon from the sheet, taking it and the honey back to the kitchen. Once everything was cleaned up, he went back to Sherlock’s room and switched the light out before climbing into bed next to Sherlock and pulling the covers over them. Sherlock immediately turned over and wrapped himself around John, still deeply asleep.

“Christ, Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?”

John sighed again and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock mumbled something against John’s shoulder, and John smiled and decided that, whatever was going to happen, it would have to wait until tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my God. What have I done.  
> I just. I'm sorry. John. Sherlock. I'm so sorry.  
> You are beautiful people and you deserve better than this.
> 
>  
> 
> Also. The things I googled. Like. Wikipedia is never speaking to me again.


End file.
